


Unique

by lirulin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, No Conclave, No Inquisition or Corypheus, Not Canon Compliant, Not Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC Compliant, Past Torture, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Technically Vore, Violence, Wholly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirulin/pseuds/lirulin
Summary: Fen'Harel is still sleeping when the Mage Rebellion happens.  A group of desperate mages decide to summon a demon to protect them from the Templars hunting them down. They mistakenly summon the Dread Wolf instead.





	1. Blood

**Author's Note:**

> A fill done for the Kink Meme in March of 2015, well before the release of the Trespasser DLC. (https://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=52897152#t52897152)
> 
> I cannot possibly stress how much this is not Trespasser compliant. This is a story that is dark and will get much darker before the end, but a good friend of mine once told me that it was her favorite. I haven't spoken to her in a while but I thought about her the other day and decided to finish it up. I am still hesitant to post this here, for many reasons, and the original plot as I had it set out runs afoul of some rather troublesome tropes, as well as some extreme and niche kinks, but a finished and problematic story is better than an unfinished one, and I can't risk letting it get purged off of LiveJournal and lost forever.
> 
> The first portion of the story will be as unedited as I can make it. It will probably be broken into a few chapters for the sake of organization. The new portions will hopefully be better beta'd.
> 
> Chapter summaries will include applicable content warnings.
> 
> Original Prompt at the bottom of the first chapter.
> 
> Enjoy.

  


Blood.

  
  


It was heavy in the air, crisp and biting as the cold. The burn of the veil was in his eyes, in his nose; the tang of it scarred his senses. The last remnants of sleep, of the Fade clotted painfully in his veins, congealed behind his eyes, and thrummed through his thoughts. It was impossible to see, to think, and his head swam in the sudden sensation of cold. 

Panic and rage gripped him, thick and heady as the taste of blood. Blood--his vision cleared at once and he could see it glittering, crystalline, and powerful where it hung in the air. It was a fine mist, little more than a palm full of liquid scattered into the air. The flavors in it mingled, twisted and became something indistinguishable, something neither old nor new.

"What's going on here!?"

The sound was physical and rolled through the air like thunder through water. It drowned his thoughts, swallowed them like the tide, and broke against the ground beneath his hands. No...his paws? He hadn't awoken, he'd been hauled whole through the veil. He'd been shorn free from his slumbering self and brought here. 

The realization was horrifying and he snarled as the thought tumbled through his muddied mind. His voice, booming and metallic, carved through space like a knife, tearing and ripping at the blood, at the power that lingered in the air. He was disoriented, diminished, but even he could smell their fear.

Good, they should be afraid.

"Taevan, what have you done?"

He sucked in breath and the air here, in this place, tasted dry and stale. The tang of magic was coppery and jagged; it stuck to his lungs, burned his throat, and fear lanced through his bones. The Fade was so distant. What had happened to this world?

"I did what I had to do."

Something clenched in his chest, wound around his throat and tightened. Brilliant pain seared across his skin and he felt himself bend. He was being leashed. The air converged against him, bound him, and he let out a booming, livid howl as he struggled against it. Unfortunately, it was too late and he was only half of himself. The noose tightened around his neck and Fen'Harel forced his eyes open, forced them to obey as he locked gazes with the mage bold enough to bind the god of rebellion. 

The face he found at the other end of his chain was boring, bland, and unremarkable. He was no elf, just some shemlen in fine, strange robes, clad in haphazard enchantments that the wolf didn't recognize. He had a smirk on his face, a look of triumph and hubris so smug that Fen'Harel nearly savored it. He memorized every angle, every twitch of that expression. He would wear its mirror when he flayed this mage alive. 

Around him he felt the pull of weak threads, small ties of blood, and his eyes tracked the faces that circled him. Four mages, weak and fearful, stared up at him and clenched their fists to their chests, as though they could hide the wounds that tied him to their will. He would snap each of them in half, break them open and--

"Maker, Taevan..." 

That voice was watery still, distant. 

The leash dug into his neck as he turned, bit into flesh and his claws dug into the ground as he forced himself against it. The mages paled as they tried to rein him in, as they exercised magic like children playing with fire, but his will was too strong to be dominated completely. His eyes fixed on the mage outside the circle and he was all too ready to commit their face to memory, to plan their slaughter as vividly as the others, but the look on her face staggered him.

She looked sorrowful. 

She stared up at him from outside the circle, her face upturned and sad. There was fear in her, but it was a different sort; she wasn't panicked, nor was she terrified. She watched him with wide eyes, face painted with some shade of regret. It took her considerable effort to turn her attention from him to that unremarkable mage at her side. 

All at once, her cheeks flushed with fury. Her eyes were alight and livid, indignant and furious, and he watched her closely. 

"Do you even know it's name?" she demanded and the blade of her staff echoed against the stone as she lifted and slammed it down. The blade crackled with lightning but the mage at her side was unafraid.

It galled him to realize it; the mage was unafraid because he'd summoned the wolf to protect him.

"It doesn't matter, Evelyn," Taevan answered, lightly. He was still high from his success, from the heady thrill of completing magic with his own blood, and his ego dripped off of him as steadily as excess mana. It was unfortunate Taevan's binding was so clumsy, if he'd linked their power Fen'Harel could have flooded him with magic until he drowned in it, until he burned from the inside out. "This is the only way we're going to survive, you saw how many templars were gathered at the base of the hills."

"It's not right," Evelyn snapped back and he felt the distant flavor of her magic as it curled with her anger, as mere sparks jumped to life around her staff, as it wreathed her in an invisible electric haze. "You used blood magic, you summoned whatever spirit was nearby, and then you bound it? This can't end well and you know it!"

"What, you think it's going to get free?" Taevan asked and he felt his limbs seize as the mage closed his bleeding hand into a fist. The shemlen folded his arms over his chest and, as his infantile will tugged at Fen'Harel's leash, the wolf moved. 

They didn't understand what they'd leashed, that much was made all too obvious as he shifted, moved like shadows through a nightmare and did Taevan's bidding. All at once, he'd broken through the ring of mages. Before a heartbeat had passed, he'd reformed like water flooding a vessel and had the woman with the sad eyes pinned the ground. She was delicate beneath him; his claws gouged into the paltry armor she wore, bit into her flesh and drew blood before Taevan hastily rescinded his silent command. Her blood was on his hands, his teeth were at her throat. She paled as she stared up at him, as the crimson light that reflected off his eyes colored her face, but he still didn't smell fear on her. He only felt only sadness. Pity even? 

Whatever point the fool was trying to make, forcing him to charge and bowl over a girl like an overeager dog, it was lost as the sounds of heavy plate resounded against rock. Taevan forgot the woman beneath his jaws and the others scrambled to their feet. They drew their staves but the power they pulled to themselves was paltry. That they'd managed to summon him was laughable, offensive even, but he could spare it little thought.

The world beyond the mage's will was watery and faded, swallowed in a fog of blind, absolute servitude. Fen'Harel could hardly think without leave but he strained to keep from crushing the woman as Taevan clumsily bent his limbs to heel. Of all of them, she was the only one he felt no need to ruthlessly slaughter. Taevan shoved him forward and a lurch of giddy blood-thirst shot through Fen'Harel as the mage shouted. 

"Templars!"

The command was unspoken and broke across his mind like a burst vein. The taste of Taevan's blood flooded his mouth and drove all thought from his mind. The command to seek, to kill, consumed him and he did as he was bade. The screams of the templars echoed off the hillside, resounded in a symphony of bent metal and broken bone. This place would stink of death, would be stained with blood long after the bodies were worn away.

* * *

  
The rain was cold and heavy; it fell in sheets, far too heavily for the wind to stir it, and buffeted them relentlessly as they trudged through the moors. Despite their cloaks and their enchantments, they'd all been soaked to the bone within minutes. The travel was miserable but nobody complained. They'd been soaked to dripping and, somehow, not one among them felt clean. 

It was hard to argue with Taevan's logic, all of them had survived and a dozen templars had not, but they were not battle-hardened mages. They were circle scribes, all of them; they were researchers, academics, students. Three of them hadn't even had their harrowing, yet. Evelyn was the only one who specialized in any sort of offensive magic, but her training in spell-craft hadn't prepared her for the horrors they'd seen.

Taevan was proud, and why wouldn't he be? Theory and research was all he had before he'd performed that spell. He'd drawn off of readings, practiced magic he'd only ever heard about second hand, and had summoned a spirit capable of truly defending them. He strode ahead of them, comfortable and cocksure, and led the group with his head held high. The bound spirit trailed behind him at his heel, its six crimson eyes locked on Taevan's back, its teeth occasionally glittering in the dimness of the rainy daylight. 

It was impossible to say what Taevan had summoned. He'd mangled the spells he'd tried to use. Evelyn had noticed his errors immediately, but somehow he'd still succeeded. The creature he'd drawn from the Fade wasn't familiar. Between her time at the Circle and the Trevelyan libraries, the time spent around relatives who were templars, in the Chantry, she'd learned every demon, every abomination, every untoward influence the Fade had to offer. This creature was entirely unknown to her and that, more than anything, was what worried her. Taevan had either summoned some truly benevolent spirit, some dream, some soul, or a benign amalgam of memory and had corrupted it with blood magic and botched words...or he'd summoned something truly dreadful, something so inherently dark and awful that being pulled from the Fade hadn't corrupted it at all.

The fact that it was hard to say if it was corrupted was terrifying.

It stood twice as tall as any of them, larger than any creature Evelyn had ever seen. It towered, in presence and size, and somehow moved like a whisper through the shadows. It was unreal, it felt like a dream, like the whispers of the veil made solid. It was a wolf, after a fashion, and it took considerable focus to keep from assigning it details that it didn't have. 

She knew wolves had fur and she'd dismissed this creature as having the same...but it didn't. It had fur in the same way that the clouds had edges, it was an illusion, a trick of shifting shadow and light. Its shape wasn't as solid as anything real but she could see the memory of muscles, like the highlights of a dream, moving beneath the darkness that shaped it. When it lunged, though, it didn't have form, it lost shape and scale. It consumed space, defied logic, and exuded power.

It was a creature made of midnight.

A dozen templars had tried to suppress this spirit, their powers had crushed the breath out of Evelyn at a distance, her limbs still felt weak from the weight of them. They'd leveled holy power, smited it, stabbed it, and it flooded past them like water, like smoke. They'd struck nothing as the nightmare took them, as it opened its massive jaws and teeth, bone white and glittering like obsidian, tore them apart. Twelve templars had faced this creature down at once and they hadn't even slowed it. It had ripped through them like wet parchment, carving and splitting them into ribbons, spilling blood and flesh, shattering bone and steel, and left the ground muddy and bathed in ichor in its wake. 

Evelyn was eager to put that place behind them. She pitied whoever found that scene; not even the Maker would be able to tell where one body ended and the next began.

And yet...as she looked past the others, past the dreamy silhouette of the creature and stared at Taevan's back, she felt uneasy. 

The creature's ferocity had been truly terrible, unnecessarily terrible, in fact. It was almost vindictive, almost spiteful how eagerly it had shed blood, how utterly it had destroyed those men. The wolf, whatever it was, clearly had no reason to concern itself with templars, so its brutality made little sense. Taevan, on the other hand, had more than enough hate in him, more than enough hurt caused by templars to inspire violence. The wolf had saved them, there was no question, but the idea of Taevan controlling it, keeping it bound to his will, was more than merely disconcerting.

Evelyn pondered the situation as they slogged through the driving rain and the sharp winds that cut the countryside. Ferelden was not a forgiving land, its weather was unkind and it offered little shelter. It had neither the thick trees of the dales, nor the scattered woods of the free marches. Ferelden had wide moors, bereft of all but brush, and hillsides that gave way to outcroppings of rock and occasional villages. There would be no shelter for them in proper buildings and natural shelter was rare. Evelyn was prepared to mind the others through the night, to set wards and try to create some shelter from ice and what magic she could spin with hunger and thirst clawing at her, but Taevan had other plans.

"You want to...what?" Jola was a student, she hadn't had her harrowing. She was a slight thing, thin in every way the word could apply; she preferred to spend her time researching and cataloging the patterns and glazes used on ancient pots and murals. She would have shied from a fistfight, all of this was beyond her. She paled as she stared at Taevan and paled even more as Taevan and the bound spirit turned to look at her.

"I want to take that inn," Taevan answered plainly, as though it were the most obvious, reasonable solution to their problem. 

The inn sat at a crossroads. They'd been quietly following the path of the road through the wilderness. None of them were so foolish to think that a group of rebel mages could simply take the roads and travel unhindered, but none of them were skilled enough to take the wilderness without the aid of roads or civilization. This corner of Ferelden was near the border of Orlais and, after occupation and the Blight, no one was particularly eager to settle here. Empty farmhouses, or more accurately the burned out ruins of them, sat on fallow land in the darkness. For miles around, only this inn and a windmill still remained reasonable and whole. 

They must have had considerable patronage from travelers and traders; the stables were nearly full and it seemed that every window in the wooden building was lit. 

"How?" Markus asked, thickly. He was hunched over his staff, winded from travel, afraid, and out of his element. His hands had blisters from simply carrying his staff all day. He translated glyphs, he could spend days entrenched in reading, searching stacks and tomes, parsing out the meaning of obscure symbols. He had a gift for it. Out here, he was defenseless. He was a fat, frightened rabbit waiting to be snatched up by a hawk. 

"What if there are templars?" Markus asked, his eyes darting back to the building, to the ground, to the sky--anywhere but Taevan and the wolf.

"What if there are?" Taevan asked and let out a bark of unsettling laughter. With a disrespectful boldness that startled Evelyn he reached out blindly and firmly patted the wolf on the nose. The wolf exhaled and the rumble of its snarl resounded through the ground like the trembling crash of thunder. Its breath was a heavy curling fog in the cold night air. Taevan laughed again and Evelyn tensed. "You don't need to worry about templars, not while I'm in charge."

"Who put you in charge?" Raleigh snapped, her voice high and offended, heedless of the wolf. She was rougher than the others, rougher than Evelyn, but she had no talent for spellcraft. She specialized in enchantments, slow, careful, crafted magics. If she could, Evelyn had no doubt she'd have jumped to become a battle mage; Raleigh feared very little and was both bold and impulsive.

"I did," Taevan snapped back at her and the wolf bared his teeth at Raleigh. The motion was mechanical, it held none of the rolling emotion, none of the terror that the first snarling howl had. Evelyn was certain that this was Taevan. 

He was abusing his control over the creature to bid for power...among their group? 

It was so petty Evelyn almost couldn't fathom it.

"Maybe we can just...you know..._tell them_ to leave," the suggestion was little more than a murmur and it extended from beneath Roark's drenched hood like a fennec tentatively peeking out of the brush. "That way nobody has to get hurt." 

Roark was a gentle soul, he specialized in healing magic, in potions and mending. He was a brilliant talent but weak willed and easily cowed; Evelyn wasn't shocked that he'd participated in Taevan's ritual but she was disappointed that Roark's will had been quite so weak. Before Taevan could turn on the young healer, Evelyn interrupted and drew both his and the wolf's gaze.

"It would be safer for everyone if we continued to the next farmhouse, there's certainly got to be one along the road," Evelyn suggested calmly, as calmly as she could, and tried to entreat Taevan's reasonable side. The other mage was only a bit older than she, but he was bold and foolhardy. He'd come from his harrowing unstable and slightly unhinged. Whatever had touched his mind had left a fracture. Like a cracked mirror, Taevan was functional, but the light would always catch along the damage, the image would always jump, and Evelyn was worried that the crack might spiderweb outward if they pressured him. "I can close up any holes in the ceiling and Raleigh can dry us out. It will be easier and will draw less attention to us."

"No," Taevan answered immediately, and Evelyn was taken aback. The vehemence in his tone had a thread of darkness to it. "I'm tired of trying not to draw attention, of sleeping on floors and hoping the templars don't come down on us for every little thing. I'm done living like that." 

Taevan turned his back on her, then, but the eyes of the wolf lingered. 

"No, I want to live like everybody else. I want to stay at an inn without hiding, I want to walk on the road--and now we can." He patted the wolf again and its eyes lighted on him like he was a bothersome rodent before they snapped, forcefully, to the building down the hill.

The sound of rain was loud against the hillside, but Evelyn couldn't hear it. Her heartbeat hammered against her ears and, as the wolf let out a deep guttural howl, it was all she could do to crush her eyes closed and grip her staff at her side. 

Taevan didn't laugh as the first screams resounded through the moors, but it was a near thing. Evelyn tried to maintain her stature, to stand tall and noble, but she recoiled with each new voice that rang out and then fell silent. Their fear, shock, and desperation rang out like notes struck on chime. One by one she heard enough to know them, to understand them, and then their voices abruptly ceased. One by one. 

One by one. 

By the end of it, she had her head bowed against her staff--the wood dug into her temple so hard she had probably bruised her own face. Her shoulders were still and her hands twisted on the grip as tightly as they could, white knuckled and painful. 

The sun set beyond the clouds and Evelyn felt cold, inside and out, when she finally opened her eyes again. She watched two people flee into the night and desperately hoped she had just missed the others. The swagger in Taevan's gait as he started toward the inn was telling, she hadn't missed anyone and neither had the wolf. 

Evelyn was still staring at the inn, at the windows that had fallen dark, at the gaping door, and the light that spilled over the threshold when Taeven turned back to yell at them. Her chest felt hollow and her hands trembled with rage, with shock, with sorrow. She didn't hear him, but she saw Jola and Roark scramble and follow after him. Markus was next, he looked back at her, lingered as he sought some solution in her face, and then frantically jogged down the hill to rejoin them. Raleigh was the last, her expression and stance were wooden and hard as she stood by Evelyn. After a few moments of horrified silence she started walking, but the motion was lifeless and absent, every line of her was laced with resignation. 

Whether Taevan was still watching or not, Evelyn had no idea, but she lingered on the hillside long after the others had vanished into the empty building. 

The lights were kindled, the door was closed, and Evelyn could only stare. When the smell of roasting meat and herbs penetrated the night, bile rose in Evelyn's throat and she sagged against her staff. She held herself up for a moment but, eventually, she dropped down to the ground. Her clothing was saturated with water, the mud did little to add to her physical discomfort. She had no idea how long she sat there, heartbeat hammering against her chest, stomach in her throat, but it was a long time. When she finally rose, the others had doused the lights in the inn. 

They'd all gone to sleep. 

They hadn't left anyone on watch because they didn't have to.

She considered leaving them, then.

The thought of standing among them was repulsive...but they were her friends. She knew each of them, loved each of them--even Taevan was dear to her. How long had she known him? Ten years? He was like a brother...and he--he had just--. The thoughts stuttered to a halt in her mind and she sucked in a deep breath. She couldn't leave them, not like this. She protected the others from the templars, from the world, and they still needed her. They needed her protection more than ever. She couldn't just leave them.

No, she couldn't just leave them.

Evelyn couldn't bring herself to enter the inn. She retired in the stables, instead. The straw was dry, the shelter was warm enough, and she didn't have to imagine the faces of the people that had died in their beds, didn't have to match details to the voices that would haunt her. Had she been any less exhausted, sleep would have eluded her, but she was half-starved, weary, and in shock. Sleep came with speed, before tears or anger, and Evelyn curled around her staff as it did.

She should have known better.

Mages didn't sleep when they were emotional, when they were in shock. She had to be calm, she had to take pause. There was no telling what her rage, her sorrow, her feelings of betrayal would draw to her in the night. This place was laced with death, steeped in emotion, and she'd simply allowed sleep to claim her. It was practically an invitation and, as she recognized the dream around her for what it was, Evelyn realized her error. 

She was curled up on a patch of flawless green grass. The sky was blue with thin white clouds glancing across it. The air tasted like sunlight and magic. She was in a meadow somewhere. She didn't recognize the trees or the flowers that shifted in the breeze; she'd never seen anything like them. Whatever this place was, she'd never been here before. This place hadn't been conjured from her own mind and so, when someone else appeared, she wasn't surprised. She didn't look at them as they walked through the whispering grass at her back, and spared only a brief glance as they took a seat next to her. 

He looked banal enough, a bald elf wearing a beige sweater and green pants, but she knew better than to discount him.

"Whatever you intend to offer me, I don't want it," Evelyn said tiredly, as the elf at her side stretched out his legs and leaned back in the grass.

"This is all I can offer you," he said, after a pause, and Evelyn caught the tail end of his gesture as he motioned at their surroundings. "At the moment, anything else is beyond me."

It was strange for demons to play at humility. Evelyn's brow furrowed and she tilted her head to look at him properly. He wasn't watching her, he was staring at the forest, a look of frustration coloring his features. He was handsome, for what it was worth. If he was a spirit of desire, he was taking a very odd approach to things, but he had crafted his form well. It was almost a pity she knew better than to indulge spirits, she doubted she'd meet his like outside the Fade. 

Evelyn didn't say anything as she looked at him and, after a while, he turned to return her gaze. His eyes were beautiful, what a shame.

"You aren't afraid of me."

Evelyn blinked and her brow furrowed again. It wasn't a question, though the way his head tilted seemed to imply curiosity. He was exceedingly subtle for a spirit, most of them didn't have the capacity or desire to employ so much tact. She was sitting with her legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped round them, and had her chin resting on her knees. Now, in an effort to get a better look at him, Evelyn unwound herself slightly and sat up.

"No, I'm not," Evelyn confirmed after a time. He stared at her for a moment longer and then an honest, amused smile blossomed across his face. Evelyn almost sighed. Despite herself, the expression put her at ease and her natural curiosity took hold of her. "What are you?"

His lips shifted into a polite frown of consideration, but the lightness his smile had instilled lingered. He hummed quietly as he considered her question and, as he thought, his brows raised in an impressed way.

"That is a very concise question," he replied, a distinct note of approval in his voice as he did.

"Yes it is, and that was not an answer," she pointed out and, again, he laughed. His chuckle was oddly real, slightly nasal, and had a small graceless snort at the end of it. The sound charmed her completely and, this time, it brought a smile to her face. At once, he seemed fascinated by her smile and he turned his full attention on it. Having his focus turned on her mouth was curious at first, but it quickly became both heady and uncomfortable.

Evelyn knew better than to let a spirit out of a direct question, so she held her tongue. If she asked something else, he wouldn't answer, it was simply how this worked. Unfortunately, he seemed content to just stare at her, examining her in a distracted way, like she wasn't present, and it was beginning to fluster her. She was patient enough but she wasn't sure what he was trying to do, what sort of spirit he was, and it made her nervous.

"Desire?"

That seemed to startle him from his thoughts and he looked up at her, attentive and confused in equal measure. She could nearly see the word as it traveled through his mind, as his eyes danced just slightly to find her meaning. His expression grew smug and amused when he realized what she was asking/accusing. His smile was wide but the way he shook his head was delicate and gentle.

"No, but I shall take that as a compliment," he said, and a mild masculine quality crept into his tone, like a young man preening under her attention. "I am not..." He paused and his frown was real as he considered his words. He glanced, sidelong at her as he turned his attention to the trees again. "It is hard to explain what I am, at least to you." 

He drew a short breath and let out a silent sigh. Evelyn watched his chest rise and her attention snagged on the pendant around his neck. She was no fool and he was unique, something she'd never encountered before in the Fade. She had no idea what the odds were, but to encounter two truly unique creatures in one day--her eyes went wide as she looked back up at his face.

"You're the wolf," she breathed as her mind saw the fog of a pattern in the facts before her. it was a baseless accusation, far more involved in gut feeling than available fact, but he turned back to her as she made it. His polite and apologetic smile, his silent confirmation, was enough to startle her awake.

* * *

> Original Prompt:
> 
> (This was kinda inspired by Solas' personal quest, haha)
> 
> Fen'Harel doesn't wake yet, so he is still roaming the Fade when the mage rebellion happens.
> 
> There's a group of rebel mages on the run, and they're trying to find some way of warding off templars. One of them gets the idea to summon and bind a demon from the Fade to protect them. What they actually summon is the Dread Wolf himself.
> 
> They don't know that the large demonic six-eyed wolf they summoned is an elven god, though. Heck, they don't even know that he's sentient. But he is hella powerful, and at the mage's command, he tears through templars, so that's enough for everyone.
> 
> Except the mage who bound him is starting to let this entire thing go to their head. First they declare themselves leader of their little group--fair enough, it's not like anyone else was leading. Then they start being more and more power hungry and bloodthirsty, seeking out templars on purpose to kill, or even turning to banditry.
> 
> Everybody sees this happening, and they're afraid, but what can they do? If the mage dies, the demon bound to him is released and would slaughter them all. And even if that doesn't happen, they'd still be without protection, so back to square one. So they all keep their heads down and obey the mage and try to just survive.
> 
> Except for one person: Trevelyan, who thinks this entire situation is dangerous and ridiculous. And after paying some closer attention to the Wolf, she starts noticing that maaaaaybe it's smarter than a regular animal... as smart as a person, even?
> 
> So she starts trying to win the Wolf's trust, and plotting some way of releasing it. Fen'Harel is hesitant and fears a trap, but has no other options, and decides to take a gamble on Trevelyan and put his trust in her (which proves a good decision when she follows through and releases him, and then maybe they run off together? :DDD)
> 
> Mostly I'm looking for slowly building, hard-earned friendship.
> 
> Bonus!  
+Fen'Harel is confused enough by the summoning and binding that he initially does have only animal instinct, and only later regains his full mental faculties (which he hides, of course. No use alarming his 'master'.)  
++eventual shippy stuff! Optionally smut. (by which I mean, after he shapeshifts back to elf form, but bestiality is not a squick for me, so whatever works for you.)  
+++Fade shenanigans, like maybe he approaches Trevelyan in dreams to learn more about her.


	2. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of carried over content. A deal is struck and Taevan decides their path forward.
> 
> Explicit physical and psychological abuse, technically vore, manipulation.

Fen'Harel had harbored some hope that when the shemlen mage slept he'd be untethered. Unfortunately, as Taevan draped himself across a bed and passed out, glutted on beef and stinking of stolen wine, his leash persisted. He couldn't break his bonds and maul the human while he slept, which was a shame, but as the Fade took the mage the intangible leash went slack. With the will that held him set adrift in slumber, Fen'Harel regained some meager scraps of freedom. 

The haze of blood and foreign thought that clouded his mind cleared, it rolled back and left the wolf standing in the darkness, his actions and predicament laid utterly bare before him. This form wasn't made for this world, not like this, and he felt sick as he recognized the devastation he'd brought to this place. The wolf couldn't be ill, not truly, and he almost lamented that.

He had no particular love for shemlen, they had been little more than a scattered novelty when he succumbed to the long slumber. They were a quiet, meek people with varied and pitiful abilities. He didn't dislike them, but he wasn't fond of them either. He had no opinion...at least, until today. He hated shemlen, this fool mage had done him more disservice, slighted him more than any creature had dared in centuries of living memory. He pitied shemlen, for all their skills they knew not what they faced, their fear was fresh and disbelieving. 

The templars had been warriors. Even addled, he recognized that. They'd forced the veil into shape around him, tried to snuff out the mutability of magic, but they were children. For all these mages played with fire, the templars that beset them carried little more than buckets of water to douse their little flames. They lacked the tools to combat him, to even comprehend him, and he took no joy in slaughtering the unarmed and helpless.

His eyes followed the walls of the room and, had he been in his mortal form, his skin would have crawled. Taevan had been eager to see him gore the templars, he'd all but begged for unfettered violence when he willed him to tear them apart. It had been different here. Here, in this building, Taevan hadn't wanted any bodies left behind. Here, he'd willed Fen'Harel to simply devour anyone he found.

He had woken peasants from their beds, had devoured innocents, passive bystanders who had committed no trespass. 

He had no love of the shemlen, but no creature deserved such needless cruelty.

Briefly, Fen'Harel considered slaughtering the other mages in their beds. He was bound to them, but their tethers were weak, breakable, and it would be a simple matter to exact his revenge on them...and yet the idea filled him with a twisted sort of disgust. He had spilled far too much blood today, innocent or deserving, and the toll of his predicament had wearied him. He had no desire to watch them wake, screaming and terrified only to crush them between his jaws...no. No more of that, not today.

Taevan slept like the dead, exhausted and comfortable on his ill-gotten bedding; he would not wake for long hours and the others, Fen'Harel suspected, were much the same. He didn't care enough to check them. He disliked surprises and disliked being watched but, frankly, they couldn't hinder him if they wanted to...even if he had any plan that could be hindered. How was he going to free himself?

He felt weak, disconnected from himself, and the sensation was deeply grating. He was powerful enough to tear through these people, but he didn't have the power to sever his leash nor to resist it. The mage who held him wasn't particularly clever, but he was cruel enough that it would be exceedingly difficult to trick him into breaking the bond. He didn't know anything about this world, about the skirmish that drove them to summon him so carelessly, and he had no means of learning it.

He _needed help._

As bothersome as it was, it was not the first time he'd ever needed assistance. Unfortunately his options were very limited and, as he moved through the halls of the darkened inn, he realized how alone he truly was. Of the group of mages, there was only one who was capable of assisting him and he'd already been forced to attack her. She hadn't shied from him, from the weight of his gaze or his anger, but she'd lingered at the very back of the group for the whole of their travels. Whether she'd been shaken or she was the only one among them who wasn't a fool, he had no idea. He doubted she'd be so brave, so fearless if she came face to face with this form without Taevan holding him in place. He couldn't risk her startling and taking flight. He hadn't been alert enough to assess people, to detect emotion beyond terror, and he growled in frustration. The windows of the inn rattled and he fell silent again.

She was distant, even now. 

His senses were not attuned for this place, not like this, but he could feel the veil where it wrapped around her. He could almost hear the edge of her sleeping mind, but she was farther than he could move in this physical world. He was not eager to reveal himself, there was no predicting how a shemlen mage would react to his name, but he had no choice. With this form trapped here and his real body slumbering, he would have to conjure some shade of himself in the Fade. The wolf wasn't made for sleeping but he managed it, somehow, and found her with ease.

Her dreams weren't formed yet, her mind was in turmoil. He couldn't wait for her to sort through the horrors of the day, to pass beyond the physical discomforts that plagued her, so he shaped her dream for her. It wasn't as grand as he was wont, the meadow was hardly an awe-inspiring sight, but it was pleasant enough. If nothing else, she seemed to enjoy it and her mind settled into a fragile ease as she sat in the sunshine.

He hadn't expected her to be so...coherent, so clever. After his long slumber, he had difficulty keeping his words and meanings in order; he'd been almost clumsy as they talked, as she stared at him and he assessed her. At one point, he'd nearly lost himself in the dream. It was so very novel, so refreshing to speak to someone who had no opinion of him, who neither hated nor worshiped him, and that relief allowed his guard to falter, gave his thoughts leave to wander. She'd caught him by surprise, by naming him as a spirit, particularly Desire, and the thoughts that accusation conjured were immediate and numerous. 

In another time, another place, he might've indulged that fantasy. 

It appealed to him, allowing misconceptions to stand, presenting himself as something else and the thrill of maintaining the facade. Presenting himself as a spirit of Desire was not something he'd ever done. In theory it would be simple, but in practice it involved an intimacy of knowledge he would be hard-pressed to fake. Pretending would demand an ability, a desire to invade minds that he did not possess and was unwilling to foster. Unfortunately, imagining how he would bend a beautiful, clever woman to that lie was far easier than telling her what he needed to. Explaining what he was, who he was, required words that she didn't know and so he was at a loss. He didn't speak her tongue and she didn't speak his and, if nothing else, he was reluctant to label himself as something he was not, even for the sake of explaining. 

Miraculously, she spared them both the complexity of that sort of lie, of that level of misunderstanding. With the barest of clues, she was able to guess at his identity. Whether he had been exceptionally careless or she was simply exceedingly bright, he had no idea, but the dream collapsed around him as she woke. He lingered in the raw Fade for a time, waited for her to sleep again, but the hope was in vain. The wolf stirred to waking and he resigned himself to waiting, to staring out the window and watching for her shape in the night. For the moment, he was at her mercy--not exactly vulnerable, but far closer to it than he cared to be. If she fled, he would have to find another to assist him. If she told the others, it could complicate his escape. If she remained, if she helped him....

He had no idea what a human woman would consider a reward, but he would grant it.

Fen'Harel waited with a sort of still patience that defied this side of the veil. The rain pounded the roof above him, the wind whipped and howled past the windows, and the inn around him creaked and groaned as the wood gave and recovered. He sat, still and unmoving as a statue, his crimson eyes locked on the window and the stable. An hour crept by, then another, and the rain broke briefly. In the silence and stillness of the night, he saw the doors to the stable as they opened; her every move was as bold and obvious as it would have been at high noon. The wolf didn't need to breathe, not exactly, but he held his breath, nonetheless. 

When she turned toward the inn, he had to restrain himself from barking victoriously. 

She came to him quietly, cautiously, and met him in the hallway by the window. This building smelled like death and innocent blood to him; she smelled of straw, damp earth, and lightning. He drew a deep breath as she approached and released it as she drew close. At the sound of his exhale, she stopped so abruptly it caught his attention. She nearly backpedaled a few steps and blinked blearily into the darkness. Was shemlen vision so poor that they couldn't see shades in the dark? He huffed again and she drew herself up, stood as tall and square as she could; her fingers tightened on her staff but the weapon remained just behind her.

Perhaps she was braver than he'd guessed.

"You're the elf who spoke to me, aren't you?" she asked, her tone hushed but not cowed. She was not afraid of waking the others, she simply didn't want to be overheard. "Can you speak in this body?"

She was very clever. He huffed again and watched as her brows pinched in consternation. She took his sound as an answer and closed her eyes as she thought. Her solution was inelegant but sufficient. He had the dexterity to tap his claws against the floor without clattering the lot of them, a single tap would serve as a yes, anything else would serve as a no. It didn't escape him that this reduced him to a tapping sound on the floor, turned a beast in the darkness into a sound on wood, but he couldn't begrudge her the attempt to forget what he was. He wasn't called the Dread Wolf because he looked friendly and welcoming, and she had seen enough horror today.

"So you are the elf?" she asked, again, and nodded as he tapped the floor once. "Taevan performed the rites incorrectly; he bludgeoned his way through his mistakes with more power and forced the spell to work. I don't know how he managed it and lived, but he shouldn't have been able to conjure you, correct?"

He was grateful for her explanation, even if he couldn't express it. If she knew Taevan's mistakes, she remembered the spells in question. He could learn them from her and try to see where the veil had snagged on him, to figure out what error permitted that foolish mage the ability to bind him. This was more than he'd expected, already, and it took considerable effort to simply tap once on the floor. At his answer her frown deepened. She drew her staff closer unconsciously. Her grip shifted on it, fingers twisting the wood in a gradual, nervous circle and he watched as she worried her lower lip between her teeth.

"If I help free you," she said slowly, hesitantly, "will you hurt them?"

The silence that swelled after that question was deafening. She was still for a full minute, waiting, until she finally turned her head downward and sucked in a sharp breath. He watched her jaw flex, watched the line of her throat as she swallowed, and the stutter in her breathing as it caught in her chest. She nodded her bowed head once, then twice, and drew it back up, her expression hard and fixed. He hadn't given her an answer but they both knew what his answer was.

"I won't demand that you spare Taevan," she said quietly, her assuredness more bravado than anything else. "He knew the risks of this sort of thing, he made the mistake, and...he deserves what comes of it." Her voice caught and she sucked another deep breath through her nose. She was still soaking wet. The wolf couldn't feel temperature, it wasn't necessary in the Fade, but he wasn't convinced that her trembling was borne entirely of cold. She swallowed and nodded again, affirmed a question she hadn't spoke aloud. 

"He knows better."

Those words fell like a death sentence and she paused once she'd uttered them. The emotion that shifted over her face was too varied, too personal, and too swift for him to decode. He watched it slide by and watched her draw a shaking breath through parted lips. When she let it out, it carried some sentiment with it and her whole demeanor shifted just slightly. She looked up at him then, or at the space she thought his head occupied, and her will hardened. In an instant she'd gone from an uneasy shemlen girl, lingering in the dark, to a force to be contended with. 

Steel ran beneath her skin and, quietly, unconsciously, her magic shored her up, gathered tightly around her and prepared her for combat, for any who would stand against her. A flash of lightning threw the hallway, abruptly, into harsh contrast and, even faced with his massive form, shrouded in the pitch dark around them, her expression didn't falter. Darkness enveloped them again, deep and absolute, and her eyes unfocused into the space between them but they didn't shift. A few seconds of silence passed and thunder rolled across the sky. It tumbled over the roof, rumbled against the horizon, and died away. Once it was silent again she continued.

"But the others must be spared." Her demand was clear, and he lifted a claw to agree to it, but she wasn't done. "If I help you, you will not, through action or inaction, harm any one of them. Do you agree?"

He wasn't certain why, but he was abruptly reluctant to tap his claw. He was rarely summoned and any bargains struck with him were painfully one-sided. Fools and the desperate would beg his assistance and, when he granted it, he always demanded what was promised. He had never bargained with someone so...precise. Her language, the specificity of it, put him on edge...but he honestly didn't have another option. He was being forced into it, but was her request worth such trepidation? She wanted a few meager lives, fools he'd passed over this very night because he tired of spilling blood.

He would have granted her any boon for assisting him; anything within his power to obtain, he'd have given her. Of all that limitless potential, she wanted something iron-clad but simple, mundane even. If all she desired were the petty mages who stood in audience as he was bound, so be it. They were hardly worth the effort to despise and they certainly weren't worth alienating his one hope for freedom. He tapped the floor and she let out a slow, quiet sigh. She held her posture, maintained her demeanor admirably, but her relief was palpable.

"Thank you," she added softly and her eyes searched the darkness in front of her, idly, as she thought. "I will solve this." She'd said it more for herself than him, it had the taste of something she repeated often, a mantra that she was dearly familiar with, but it was hard not to believe her.

  


* * *

  
Dawn arrived without fanfare; it crested behind thick grey clouds and colorless, unfocused light spilled across the muddied landscape of Ferelden. Evelyn hadn't slept again and, with the light of day, couldn't abide remaining in the inn. She'd taken refuge from the rain, had dried her clothing and her cloak over the hearth, but being inside the building made her ill. As the others rose, it was easy to see that she wasn't alone in her discomfort. Jola and Roark looked harried and jumped at the slightest sound. Markus was pale and drawn, two afflictions that were painfully obvious on his dark skin and chubby face. Raleigh looked unchanged from the evening before but, if anything, her fixed expression and the distant quality of her gaze spoke of how this place dug at her. 

They each joined her, one by one, in the street as they woke. They gathered in a loose circle, clustered around the simple campfire Evelyn had built as a bulwark against the chill of dawn, and none of them attempted to break the silence that gripped them. There were no words and none of them wanted to think deeply enough to search for any, to try to speak about what had happened. Eventually, Roark hazarded a quick trip back into the inn. He returned shortly, arms laden with pilfered foods and utensils. His head dipped in shame as he sat and passed out his bounty of stolen goods; nobody rebuked him for his...was it theft or grave robbing? 

They weren't so proud that they could refuse food, tools, and shelter. That they were stolen from people they had (if only indirectly) slaughtered didn't matter, not in the end, and they were silent as they filled their packs and waited around the fire. 

It was mid-morning by the time Taevan rose. He didn't rush to join them, if he noticed their absence at all. No, Taevan stoked the fires in the kitchen of the inn and lingered inside for a long time. He whiled away the morning bathing and sipping expensive alcohol he'd found amid the belongings left behind. When he joined them, scrubbed and perfumed with a bottle of Antivian brandy tucked into his belt, he looked utterly refreshed, he was well-rested and bright-eyed. Were it not for the massive, spectral wolf at his heel, he'd have been the picture of a healthy, happy Circle mage. As it was, his refreshed smile was sullied with confusion and irritation as he came out to meet them.

"Are you all going to just pout?" Taevan broke the silence that had persisted since dawn, his words drenched in disapproval and good humor in equal parts. He scanned their faces but Evelyn was the only one who could meet his gaze. Her expression was tired, neutral, and he smiled the familiar, brotherly smile he reserved for her alone. "Come on Evy," he cajoled and she could almost feel her heart ripping in half. "I'll stoke the fires for you if you want to take a scalding bath, it'd do you good."

The suggestion was so out of place, so willfully oblivious, that there was no answer for it. Evelyn could barely muster a pitying smile, words were beyond her. Taevan took her expression to mean something friendly, read some consolation into it, and he rolled his eyes as he threw his hands into the air. The abrupt motion startled the others and, when he looked back, all eyes were on him.

"Oh fine then, be that way," Taevan said, sounding disgruntled in a good-natured way. "We can get going now, if you're all so eager."

Evelyn rose first and, once she moved, the others followed her. There was no haste in her motions and, when Taevan grew weary of waiting for her and moved alongside her, she hardly noticed. She couldn't count how many times he'd threaded an arm underneath hers and hauled her up from a chair, from bed, from the floor. He was fond of pomp, of pageantry, and he relished whisking her off to some task on the other side of the Circle, elbow tucked into hers, gait as sweeping and refined as anything. She'd always wondered why she was the only one he ever did this to, she suspected it was because of her noble upbringing but she never asked after it. 

When he threaded his arm beneath hers and hauled her to standing, it was all she could do not to call lightning down on him. Her magic crackled beneath her skin, eager to strike at him, but she'd learned, long ago, to curb it when she was startled. She went rigid and the others froze as they noticed. Taevan wrapped his arm through hers in a companionable way and, without preamble, hauled her around to face the westbound road. Evelyn's heart hammered in her throat, her pulse raced as she was manhandled, but she offered up no resistance to his maneuvering. He drew his heels together once he had them facing the right way and, with a smile she used to find charming, he urged them into a quick, energetic walk. Behind her, she heard the others scramble and, very soon, their scattered footsteps fell in line behind them.

"See, just like old times," Taevan whispered to her, comforting and delusional, and Evelyn was able to cope with the situation. She felt numb as she went along with his step, as her limbs fell into familiar formation and pace, and her mind raced.

Taevan wasn't mad.

She'd known he was _touched._ He'd been friendly, easy with his smiles and laughter, a perpetual source of companionship to any mage in the Circle who needed it. He'd cracked before his harrowing, some chip had come away and stuck itself inside him, but it hadn't been madness. His harrowing had taken his ease, his joviality, and gave him an unpredictable, fractured edge. He wasn't so different, not to someone who'd known him as long as Evelyn, but he wasn't nearly the same. The templars had hounded him, had put stress on him, and Evelyn had used that to excuse the unseemly sharpness in him, used it as a reason to guard and shelter him as she could. It wasn't until he'd split his palm and summoned the wolf that she'd wondered what the templars saw in him, why they'd kept such a close eye on him. 

Now, as his elbow gently cradled her own while his fingers dug painfully into her wrist, she was beginning to see.

Taevan wasn't mad and that was truly terrifying. The spirit at her back, the creature who used the face of an elf and walked her dreams, could never frighten her as badly as the smiling, dead eyes in Taevan's face. How long had his eyes been like that? How long had his smile been so razor thin and cutting? How long had she been something for him to clutch to, desperately, in nostalgia? 

How long had she encouraged it?

"Where are we going?" 

The soft voice was jarring and Evelyn's head snapped back around as she heard it. She'd broken the conspiratorial gaze Taevan had locked her into and she could feel his glower against the side of her face. The hand on her wrist clenched hard, fingers strained against her arm, tried to push between bone and flesh and she felt bruises rising beneath her sleeves. It was Roark who'd asked, who'd interrupted. The boy had picked up his head just long enough to question their destination. His cheeks still burned with shame and his shoulders curled forward preemptively as he waited for Taevan to shout. Roark had never feared Taevan, not like this...but, then again, none of them had. Evelyn flipped her gaze from Roark to Taevan and, before the mage could react in an unpredictable, potentially violent way, she beamed at him. 

Her smile was bright and mechanical but Taevan, apparently, couldn't tell the difference.

"A good question," Evelyn said and very nearly managed a veneer of cheer. The appearance of her support seemed to be enough for Taevan; he gave her an easy smile and bumped her shoulder with his. She had already lost most of the feeling in her hand and his fingers didn't relent. "So are you going to keep it secret all day, or just until we get there?"

"Well, I know you all had your hearts set on the Dales," Taevan said and Evelyn almost sagged when he released her wrist so he could gesticulate. "But I've never really cared for forests. I'm a big city fellow, myself, and I've never been to Val Royeaux."

"Val Royeaux?" Evelyn choked; the words caught in her throat as she tried to stifle the shock in her voice.

"Andraste's tits, are you out of your mind?" Raleigh snapped and her voice rose with each word. "Do you know how many templars there are in Val Royeaux!?"

A snarl, primal and dark ripped through the air as Raleigh advanced toward Taevan. Whether she planned on shaking him to his senses or breaking his nose, it was derailed in an instant. She froze, they all did, and a rumbling growl picked up, resounded on the end of the snarl and chased through them. It set every nerve on edge, every hair on end, and every muscle locked in place as it grew louder. Ancient fear coiled at the base of their skulls; it was a fear older than words, older than language itself. That fear demanded caution, demanded absolute attention, and it received both in spades. The wolf, a shadow that had marched alongside them, that had loomed at Taevan's other shoulder, had detached from the mage's side and turned its attention on Raleigh. Its teeth, far too numerous and far too sharp for any living beast, glittered morbidly as it bared them. Raleigh's face was reflected back at her on the surface of each of the wolf's eyes.

Evelyn watched the wolf advance and felt a sinking dread in her stomach. She'd made a contract with the demon, the spirit, whatever that wolf was...but if it was still leashed, if Taevan drove it to violence, she could do nothing to protect the others. Horror stole through her and she turned her attention back to Taevan; his smile was gone, fallen away to some flat, emotionless look and his dark eyes narrowed at Raleigh. He was so dispassionate, so detached that Evelyn's mind rebelled against what she saw. 

Surely he was possessed? He'd felt such remorse for his actions that he'd crumpled under the weight of some demon in the Fade? Surely this couldn't be him?

Taevan wasn't mad...was he?

"Of course I know that," Taevan answered smoothly, as though the question itself were beneath him. "That's why we're going. Well, that and the grand cathedral. I've always wanted to see that."

He turned his gaze on Evelyn and jostled the arm he had tucked into his elbow.

"You wanted to see the grand cathedral, right Evy?"

This moment defied reason and Evelyn was straining to keep up. She wanted, desperately, to beg him to snap out of this, to appeal to his gentler side, but she knew that would fail. She was grasping at sand as it slipped through her fingers and she wasn't sure she could manipulate a madman. Her heart skipped a beat, guttered in the worst way as he leaned in slightly, and it startled her thoughts in line. She didn't have to feign a look of reproach, but she did have to strain her every fiber to soften it. Taevan was taken aback by her look, as though he hadn't expected her to be able to make it, and she pressed ahead while she had him off balance.

"Really, Taevan? A dozen templars down and you think your new pet can tear through Val Royeaux?" Evelyn chastised, her words forming as she said them, her thoughts scrambling for something familiar to anchor him, to drive him elsewhere and save Raleigh's life. The mage at her side looked offended, annoyed in a way that wasn't playful, but Evelyn pressed him further. She knew the wolf didn't want to kill her, she was more valuable than any of them, but she'd give her life in a second to save any of them. "You always did hate to practice spells before-hand but this is getting ridiculous. At least find a fort and test him there before you try to take Val Royeaux."

Taevan let out a disgusted noise, a heavy groan uttered with the energy of a curse and threw both his arms into the air. He leveled a dark look at her, held it for a moment, and then relented. His eerie cheer evaporated with that motion and, when he started walking again, he did it without her arm in his. Her wrist throbbed with the pounding of her pulse and she resisted the urge to cradle it.

"Oh fine, if it will keep you lot from whining all the way to Val Royeaux, we can do a scale test," he shouted back, over his shoulder, and snapped his fingers. The motion was unnecessary and inflammatory, designed to do little more than remind them all that he alone commanded the wolf, and the wolf bent to his will. It abandoned Raleigh and jogged to his side like a loyal hound. Evelyn and the others hesitated, confused and shocked, frozen in his wake. He walked a few feet and shot them a disgusted look before snapping his fingers again. His disrespect was staggering but there was nothing they could do about it. They could only obey. Evelyn motioned to the others and ushered them, silently, into a line behind her. 

The nearest fort was several days to the north; she just prayed they didn't stumble across anyone on the road.


	3. Hopeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final part of the original posting. Taevan keeps a tight leash on everyone and Evelyn is very tired.
> 
> Explicit brainwashing, physical abuse, emotional abuse, reference to past violence, disfiguration.

For the whole of that first day, Evelyn kept a close eye on Taevan. She had known him for so long that his moods, his reactions were all obvious to her. Though he was more severe now than he'd ever been in all their years of closeness, he wasn't entirely alien. Something about that, though, made watching him, talking to him, all the more painful; she could see where he'd eschewed violence in the past, where he'd restrained himself and no longer felt the need, and each instance felt like the punchline of a sick joke. When he felt like conversing, she curbed his mood. When his attention strayed, she drew it back to herself, and the ease of their friendship rapidly became something ugly and cancerous. 

He took out his casual frustration on her, hid it in easy gestures that bit into her skin, with brief embraces that were crushing in every sense, and Evelyn tolerated it with carefully constructed humor and grace even as some part of her heart crumbled away. It pained her, in more ways than one, but this was a task she could not pass off. This was hers alone to bare. He was the most free with her, he always had been, and as such she risked the most and the least by baiting him. He would bruise her, shout at her, trip her, and always in some familiar way, like they were merely wandering the halls of the Circle, ribbing each other as they gossiped and enjoyed the company. It was humiliating and, honestly, that was probably the point. He'd never understood why people loved her better than him, why they felt more comfortable, more easy in her presence than his; it had bothered him for a long time, years at least. She had tried to console him about it, once, but he'd taken offense. She was almost glad for that, now, because it let her do her job, it let her become a lightning rod, let her protect the others while he had his tantrum at her expense. 

The physical slights didn't bother her much, not really. They were petty; they reflected the very mildest edges of his temper, echoed in actions and words she had a long memory of. Taevan could be more than spiteful, though, he had been even before the Rebellion, before the summoning, and she'd seen the naked face of his fury already. They'd all seen his offense, how completely he'd succumbed to the smallest slight, and how his waspishness had escalated with Raleigh. The others had only known him for a fraction of the time Evelyn had, they didn't hold the same sway, the same weight in his regard that she did. She suffered more passing slights, but they wouldn't be afforded the same forgiveness that she would. He wouldn't hurt her, not seriously...

That assurance rang hollow, even to her own ears, and she ignored the pang that followed it.

Honestly, she had no reason to believe that she was safe, to imagine he would refrain because they were close, but she had to. Thinking otherwise would only twist the sharp pain in her chest, would tear out a piece of her foundation and leave her weak. Thinking otherwise helped no one.

They traveled along the north road, followed it closely, diligently as carried them in the opposite direction of the Dales, farther and farther from the safety they'd imagined, that they'd dreamed of. They walked for the remainder of the day, driven relentlessly at a speed that was just a step too quick for any of them but Taevan. Their pace was enough to work itself into their joints, to grind them down with each step, and it did so with gusto. They bore it in uncomfortable, strained silence even while Taevan whistled with tuneless, macabre cheer. 

As the day wore on, Evelyn and the others grew steadily more uncomfortable and increasingly nervous. They couldn't strike out over the moors without the road as a guide, but actually walking the road itself, keeping to it, made them all terribly uneasy. Their path was smoother, simpler to walk, but with every passing hour the odds that they would come across a templar, a merchant, mercenaries, _anyone at all_ grew greater. 

The stress of waiting for that inevitable confrontation, for the horror that would accompany it was exhausting. They scanned the horizon almost distractedly, kept watch for any hint of other people, and the effort exhausted them with startling speed. There was no stopping, though, no rest unless Taevan decided to, and so they walked. They walked as they fell into dazed silence, as the sun had set and darkness pressed in on them, even as their feet caught on stones and dips in the road and sent them sprawling. It was pitch dark when Taevan finally shouted at them, berated them for their hopelessness and allowed them rest. 

They hadn't traveled nearly as far as Taevan would have liked, which was unsurprising considering they'd started after noon, and his irritation was tangible when the darkness finally forced them to stop. Whatever vindictive streak had inspired him to take the road, it relented when it came time to make camp. He bent to Evelyn's calm suggestions and followed her lead off the road, into the hills. He allowed her to set wards and watched her, impatiently, as she kindled a fire and bent the veil to hide the light. He didn't offer to help her as she conjured shelter and, instead, dropped himself down onto the damp, grassy earth by the fireside and slipped into sleep. In the past, she might've been bothered by his callousness, by his lack of help, but now it was a blessing. He left them in peace when he nodded off and some unnamed relief settled over the lot of them. While the others lowered their packs and warmed themselves, Evelyn exhausted her mana conjuring walls and a roof around them. The ice glittered in the firelight but the surface was too uneven to reflect her face.

That was just as well, really; she didn't have the energy to maintain her façade any longer.

Her expression was grim and exhausted when she finally sat. The others looked to her, waited for her to say something, but she was too tired to think, let alone speak. After a few minutes, Roark offered her a strip of dried meat. Well, more accurately, he pressed it into her hand and went to parse the rest out to Jola, Raleigh, and Markus. Evelyn ate it absently, almost lethargically, and her stomach twisted as the ration settled in it. She hadn't eaten...since...was it the day before yesterday? That sounded about right. How long had it been since she'd had water? The answer refused to come to her and Evelyn reached to her belt for her flask. It was nearly full, something she made sure of habitually, and she took a long drink off it before passing it to the nearest mage. Raleigh took it from her and nodded her thanks, after that Evelyn paid no attention to her flask or where it was.

This was a nightmare.

The world had become bloody and horrible in a way she couldn't quite wrap her mind around; pieces of herself, of her foundation were rotting away beneath her feet and she couldn't do anything but watch. Her gaze, absent and listless, hovered on Taevan's sleeping face for some long time. Fortunately, she'd spent far too much energy on him, on this shelter and the others, to bother with anything as bold as emotion. She was drained and empty and, as she stared at his familiar face, she felt nothing. Her expression pulled into something just slightly rueful as she turned away from him, away from the fire, and lowered herself to the ground. The moment she curled on her side the weight of sleep came down on her hard; she barely managed to pillow her head on her arm before she passed out. 

Somehow, despite the fact that she ached in her very bones and her head was resting on the deep, livid bruises that lined her arm, Evelyn was more comfortable than she'd been in days. It was the exhaustion, if it was anything, but she had no time to consider it, to consider anything at all as sleep and the Fade consumed her.

She welcomed the calm embrace of darkness, the promise of deep, dreamless sleep. She didn't expect a green field to form around her, but she didn't have the energy for surprise, nor the harsh vigilance the Fade demanded. The smell of grass and flowers curled sweetly in the sunshine, stirred with the gentle, warm breeze, and Evelyn gave in to the dream. Everything was warmer, brighter once she surrendered to the whorls and eddies of the Fade and she smiled as she basked in it. She had been so tired for so long that the sensation nagged her, followed her even here. Her mind struggled desperately, tried to put her to sleep even as she sank into the Fade, and she indulged it. 

She closed her eyes, relished the feeling of the sun as it warmed her face, and waited for the wolf. This was his dream, after all, and dreams were not so malleable that they could be manipulated from afar; even demons had to touch them, had to find a way in to exert influence. Whether he was a demon or not, she had no doubt that he was here, somewhere. She didn't trust him, not in any real sense, but she would savor what she could of his dream for as long as she could savor it.

Time was strange in the Fade, it didn't flow consistently, it skipped and slowed at will. It felt like an eternity of lazy afternoons had stretched before her, had embraced her to her core, and had faded into old memory before the wolf appeared. She felt him more than anything; the tender grass shifted quietly around her as he sat just above her head. He was warm, like the sun, and she could feel the heat that radiated off of his legs. He was sitting very close and while that should have bothered her, it didn't, not really. She had no energy for fear, for suspicion, and she disliked both. This was her only reprieve from those feelings and she needed it so very, very desperately; she refused to give up this brief stretch of peace, this restful lull, even for a conversation she knew she needed to have.

She didn't need to open her eyes, it was symbolic in the Fade, but it was habit.

Evelyn didn't sit up, she barely moved at all but to tilt her head back and peer up at the elf. His legs were splayed, stretched out on either side of her shoulders, casual and heavy where they rested against the grass. His clothed thighs nearly bracketed her head. He was reclining, his weight rested on his arms as he leaned to soak up sunlight, and the angle of her gaze flattered his physique immensely. She had no doubt he'd considered that before he sat down, he'd been far too pleased by her assumption that he was a desire demon, but she couldn't hold his proud preening against him. She appreciated the aesthetics, if nothing else, and his juvenile antics brought an earnest smile to her face. She let out a short laugh as she relaxed and turned back to the sky above. Her eyes closed on reflex, but they didn't remain that way for long.

"I'm sorry."

She'd forgotten the lilt, the timbre of his voice when she woke, it had been one of the details of her dreams that had muddied and faded in the light of day. Hearing it now, she was surprised by the specifics of it. It took her a second to parse out his words, to recognize what he'd said and not just that he'd spoken. As she thought, a shadow fell across her face and she opened her eyes, her curiosity obvious and unguarded. He was leaning over her, his face in mild shade against the deep blue sky, too close and not nearly close enough all at once. His expression was soft, subtle, and it took some effort to pick apart the meaning in it. It was a look of regret, perhaps, but that was fundamentally confusing. Her brow furrowed and a small, subdued smile pulled at his lips.

"I wish I could offer more than this," he added, quietly, and his eyes darted away, briefly, to glance at the rest of the meadow. When they returned and met her gaze again, Evelyn could feel the strain in them. The impending conversation was written on his face; a hundred details they couldn't share, a hundred questions that needed to be asked and answered, and all of it had to be done with careful, precise words, with caution and iron restraint, with the silent understanding that he planned to slaughter one of her oldest friends. Evelyn frowned and he watched the way her lips bowed.

Perhaps it was foolish, it certainly felt like it was, but she didn't care. She couldn't abide more suspicion, not yet, and dealing with a demon, a spirit, whatever this strange elf was, after dealing with the strain of the waking world...all of it was simply too much. She couldn't break while she was awake, failure of that sort would have mortal consequences. She'd never forgive herself if her mistake cost the lives of those that loved her, so this was the place that had to give. 

Whether he could be trusted or not, it didn't matter, she didn't have the patience to test and measure him, to examine him from every angle and search for any hint of duplicity. She was tired. She closed her eyes again and stretched an arm blindly to her side. Her hand bumped against his knee and she lazily curled her fingers around his leg. She felt him freeze beneath her touch, felt his confusion in the twitch of muscle beneath the loose press of her fingertips, but she didn't withdraw her hand. 

He didn't move away.

"Do you know how to braid hair?" Her voice carried the thickness of deep sleep and disuse. She almost laughed as it curled into an unflattering croak around the last syllable of her question. She cleared her throat with a gentle cough, barely enough to shake her shoulders, and squeezed his leg slightly. She intended to repeat herself but, as she opened her mouth, she felt his fingers graze along her scalp.

He was gentle and careful as he freed her hair from behind her head. His fingers were slender and elegant, she could feel their shape as he moved, as they brushed her scalp and she relaxed beneath them. They carded through her hair like they were sliding through water, painless and without the slightest snag. He moved with a deft ease that was truly surprising and Evelyn hummed wordless approval as he gradually worked his way across the crown of her head. His fingertips were light and their touch was fleeting; they pressed with soothing pressure against the places where her head ached, where the toll of magic and exhaustion weighed on her the heaviest, and barely grazed her face, her neck as he swept pieces of hair into place. By the time he'd finished, Evelyn was nearly boneless, perfectly content to simply exist until the real world pushed the Fade away again. 

The wolf let her relish her peace for a while before he spoke again. Thankfully he refrained from jarring topics, from anything important or suspicious, and she was grateful for his inexplicable abundance of tact.

"You have the strangest requests," he said warmly, and his mild incredulity carried the shape of his smile.

"Mmm? I do?" Evelyn prompted drowsily and shifted her hand so she could drape it over his knee. "Do you not know many women with hair?"

His laugh was sudden and abrupt, she'd clearly startled it out of him. The sound was short-lived but she felt the slight tremors as it faded, even after he fell silent again.

"Actually, I don't," he admitted, lightly. His voice held a note of friendly, inconsequential honesty and it was Evelyn's turn to laugh. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest and was, ultimately, only slightly more dignified than a giggle. The sound was brief but, once it left her, a wide smile spread across her face. The expression was unreserved and honest, it was utterly unlike the smiles she'd worn all day; it felt so nice to smile and mean it.

"Are you _certain_ you aren't a Desire demon?" Evelyn asked with mock reproach. Her smile persisted, beaming and bright, and she continued with lazy ease. "You have to tell me if I ask you; it's a rule, you know." 

"Oh?" He tried to sound affronted by her ridiculous claims but, at the moment, he was less convincing than she was. His fingers lighted against the sides of her neck and the corners of her jaw. Shadow fell across her again and she opened her eyes to find him very close. His eyes were half-lidded and amused as they peered down at her from bare inches. His palms smoothed against the sides of her skull and Evelyn's breath caught in her throat as she felt his ghost across her cheek. Idly, with no urgency at all, his eyes shifted and fixed on her mouth. He stared a moment and leaned forward as he spoke. "If that's the case, I suppo--"

All at once, without warning or preamble, he was ripped away.

The way things moved, shifted, and traversed the Fade defied language. It was impossible to find the right shade of words to describe the way dreams behaved and, more than ever, words failed her now. He didn’t simply cease, but there was nothing quiet about the way he was drawn away. He scattered, evanescenced, blew apart like smoke hit by a stiff breeze, and all too abruptly Evelyn was alone.

The meadow, the dream, lingered for a moment after he vanished but the details faded quickly. Everything dulled, became little more than a muted shade, and blurred until the whole of the dream was little more than smudges of color in the air. Too soon, the color faded away and only she remained, solitary and submerged in the formless dark of uninfluenced slumber.

Her disappointment was deep and consuming, but her lucidity evaporated alongside the dream. The dark felt cold at first, almost bereft, and then it felt like nothing at all. Senseless slumber claimed her and she lost all sense of time. 

She woke just after dawn, jostled rudely to consciousness with only Taevan’s empty eyes and hollow smile to greet her.

When she smiled back she felt nothing inside. 

Her face ached.  


* * *

  
It had been so long since he'd been forced from the Fade, since he'd been ripped from a dream of his own design, that the sudden solidity of reality struck him like a blow. His leash seared vicious trails along his neck, dug mercilessly into the wolf's bones as it snapped him back, and any calm that he might've found in Evelyn's dream was bitterly spent. Taevan rose idly, dragged himself awake with a groggy, displeased scowl, and Fen' Harel released a heavy, angry breath against the back of the the mage's neck. He strained against his tether, the edges of teeth glittering in the dying fire-light, and let out a primal, grisly snarl. The sound was so low, so tempered by his rage and hatred, that it was barely a sound. The veil resounded with it, rippled and shuddered beneath his ire, but the shemlen mage was unmoved.

"I know, buddy," Taevan complained to him groggily and his smile curled with a blasé sort of contempt. The leash pulled taut as he stretched a filthy hand up and patted the wolf, carelessly, haphazardly, across the snout. "_Mornings,_" Taevan added with a sigh and shoved the wolf's head away. He had no choice, his head moved with the mage's whims, and he silently suffered the indignity of being treated like a hound. His snarl curled, unspoken and solid at the base of the wolf's throat and he could only watch as Taevan stood, as he gave a languid stretch and regarded their surroundings.

"Pathetic," the mage announced quietly and spat on the ground at his side, on the wall Evelyn had carefully drawn around him. The patter of light rain resounded against the icy roof, it rang like notes on glass and, despite his general distaste for the structure, the look Taevan shot upward was begrudgingly appreciative. 

The weaker mages rested against one another, slept in a configuration that was very nearly a pile. They'd clustered together in the small shelter, bent between an icy wall and the edge of the fire, and were mindful not to stray too close to the space Taevan had claimed. His eyes tracked across them, traced their fretful, slumbering faces, but he had no reaction to them or their obvious discomfort. The blankness of his face persisted as his eyes moved on, as he looked past them and offered them no more attention or concern than the ground beneath his feet, but it shifted as he found Evelyn. His eyes lighted on her where she slept; she was curled into a space just under the edge of the roof and, while she was sheltered from the rain, she trembled slightly, constantly in the cold. The change that pulled at the shemlen mage's expression was not a kind one and Fen'Harel's eyes bore into him.

"Oh Evy," he sang softly, a heavy note of reprimand in the offhand lilt of his voice. The grass cushioned his boots and, as he moved, Fen'Harel was compelled to move alongside him, to remain at his heel like some mindless cur. Taevan ambled lazily around the fireside, the distance was devoured in less than four full steps, and crouched beside the sleeping woman. He reached out casually, with all the familiarity of a lover, and brushed her disheveled hair from her face. Something in the texture of it, in the fine sheen of sweat and dust that clung to her skin, disgusted Taevan and he sneered as he withdrew his hand. He turned his attention to her cloak and, for just a moment, he looked like he was going to wipe his hands on her. He abandoned the thought and, with a baleful shake of his head, wiped the imperceptible grime across the hem of his own robes. 

The glance he shot the wolf was friendly, as though Fen'Harel were his confidant and not his captive, and the woman between them shivered in the dark.

"She's hopeless," he explained, fondly, and the leash scalded the wolf's throat as he tried to force a growl between his teeth. Whatever else the human was ready to say, whatever tales he was prepared to wax nostalgic about, were cut short as the others stirred. The voice that broke the silence was feminine and reedy, as young as it was unsuspecting, and Fen'Harel shifted his gaze to the thinnest, smallest female mage as she swayed upright.

"Taevan?" The girlish mage sat up, peeled herself away from her kin and peered, absently, at Taevan's back. Sleep still clung to her, cloying and persistent, like thick rivulets of tar. She stared in mild confusion at Taevan, at the others, at their surroundings and waited blearily for consciousness to catch her up. Taevan turned to her and the smile he drew across his face was both charming and empty.

"I'm here, Jola," he reminded her quietly. The patience in his voice was haughty and deeply patronizing but the girl wasn't awake enough to see it. The smile that curled on her face was reflexive, forgetful, and her eyes blinked heavily as she stared at him. He seized the opportunity, drew himself away from Evelyn, and moved to the young mage's side. When he knelt and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, it was easy to see how practiced the motion was, how hollow and cold. There was no comfort in him. "Is something wrong?"

"Where--?" The girl blinked again and her face screwed up as she tried to force thought through the muddied paths of her mind. Taevan shushed her, cut off her question before it could coalesce, and the girl was all too happy to lean into his cursory embrace. "Is Evelyn okay?" The words were slurred, innocent, and when Taevan stiffened with irritation, the girl didn't notice. Her eyes closed comfortably, as though she felt safe against the madman beside her, and her face tucked against his collarbone.

"She's fine," Taevan assured her blithely and the girl accepted his word as gospel. He slid a hand over her head, carefully and mechanically, and his expression went blank again. The bland, meaningless warmth in his voice, however, remained as he comforted her. "You know I'll keep you all safe, don't you Jola? I promised, didn't I?"

"I remember," Jola slurred against his shirt and the wolf felt as her mind slipped back under, as she dipped beneath the surface of the Fade. There was something off about the feel of her, something distant and hazy, but it wasn't enough to hold Fen'Harel's attention, not while Taevan eyed him. The shemlen smirked at him and it had a note of teasing, of incredulity to it, as though her trust were something amusing and foolish, something to be mocked. He stroked the girl's hair again and she let out a heavy breath against his chest. Within a moment, her face was slack again and, with precisely enough care to keep from waking her, Taevan dislodged her and lowered her to the ground. Her cheek pressed against the dirt and Taevan instantly disregarded her as he rose.

This mage was broken, twisted and unhinged, and the longer the wolf stayed leashed to his will, to the jagged edge of his thoughts, the more precarious this situation became. Fen'Harel wasn't invested in these human mages, or he hadn't been, but he found it difficult not to pity them in their plight. This madman held his leash tightly but his grip was no less firm around their nooses. The only power that stood between Taevan and unending, mindless slaughter was Evelyn; that Fen'Harel shared their fate, that he was just as dependent on their only salvation, endeared them to him, somewhat. He was not fond of the mages, but he would take no issue with fulfilling his bargain and sparing them Taevan's fate.

The veil shifted, snagged unevenly around the fire and he watched as the shemlen mage wove a spell between his fingers. The flavor of Taevan's magic prickled at his skin, scraped at his nerves and wore them raw; it was not unlike nails dragged across a slate. It was clumsy and strange, but Fen'Harel recognized the shape of the spell as the mage bent it around his hands. Taevan covered his errors, the way his magic snagged and mangled a spell of gentle elegance, by exerting more of himself into it. His expression was almost bored as he turned the spell, a swell of haphazard power that was barely fit to be called an _attempt_, toward the sleeping cluster of mages. The veil cracked and strained as he cast it and Fen'Harel watched, in mute horror, as he carelessly carved into the memories of those that followed him. He bludgeoned and bore into them with appalling disregard; he wiped out memories indiscriminately and moved along without placing anything in the gaping spaces he left in his wake.

In his long life, Fen'Harel had met very few souls who treated other lives with such absolute and callous disregard. The powerful calculated, weighed the value of lives and behaved accordingly; the foolish squandered, wasted life like children, unaware of how precious it truly was; the angry slaughtered, took life to sate themselves and always failed to find solace in their wastefulness. Even the oldest spirits, the most ancient beings that wandered the deepest paths of the Fade had more care. They who saw lives as currency, as nothing more than objects to be regulated and spent, didn't behave like this. 

Taevan simply didn't value their lives. 

His companions, mages who were too weak or too young to defend themselves from their enemies, who trusted him so deeply he could lull them to sleep against his heart, meant less to Taevan than the fire that warmed him in the night. Evelyn, who had languished and trembled with emotion as she turned Taevan's fate over to the wolf, just barely meant enough to him, to this madman, that he would suffer wiping her sweat on his robes. It was abhorrent and baffling.

The wolf was feared and celebrated among the people; he knew what it was to be alone, to be loathed and loved by people he'd never met, to be held in deep, perpetual suspicion, and he struggled to comprehend how this creature had shrouded himself so well. Fen'Harel was no judge of shemlen ages, but Taevan wore all the trappings of youth, of scholarly privilege. How had he not been turned out? How did something so repugnant, so destructive hide in plain sight? How had he shielded himself while he learned his manipulative pantomime?

Taevan pulled his spell out, extracted living memories with tools befitting a gravedigger rather than a surgeon, and Fen'Harel felt the veil shift as the mage caught his breath. His technique was beyond wasteful, it consumed mana greedily, and as Taevan turned his attention to Evelyn, the wolf could feel the way the mage's strength flagged. Taevan wasn't practiced enough to maintain the wolf's bonds and carve into the minds of his companions. He was weary, weakened and, as he took a step, Fen'Harel rose and moved into his path. His teeth shone in the bare firelight and his eyes were alight in the darkness, red a livid as they fixed on the mage.

He could have waited.

If he'd allowed the human to weave a second spell, to weary himself as he carved into Evelyn's mind, he could have snapped the bond that held him. He could have torn this creature, this abomination to pieces and returned this form to the Fade, to his body. 

...It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he valued lives more highly than the mage that held him. At the very least, he refused to stand by and watch as a creature like him, as some vile shade did harm to the sleeping woman; he wouldn't tolerate something so foul despoiling her mind, tearing into her clever thoughts--no, that wasn't quite right. He'd met hundreds who were as clever as she was; she was bright but not special in that regard. She wasn't nearly the best of them, in any way, but she was just slightly different. In a subtle, quiet way, she was unique. She was kind and persistently selfless. There was an undercurrent of something genuine and rare that ran through her, the foundations of a spirit he'd never met, and he couldn't abide something as banal, as cruel and worthless as _him_ damaging her.

Taevan's eyes widened as Fen'Harel moved without his leave, as the wolf's head dipped down to the human's level and his massive ears flattened back against his skull. His fur, indistinct and shifting, rose and bristled with the swell of his magic. Taevan felt it and a shudder clawed through him; the drag of the power manipulated the veil with more skill, more absolution than the shemlen could ever dream of commanding. It found purchase in the human, moved like the pressure of sharp teeth beneath his skin, and Taevan lifted his bandaged hand in a blind panic. 

He crushed his palm, broke open the wound across it and the flavor of the human's blood poured across Fen'Harel's tongue. The leash twisted, tightened and strained against him with such ferocity that the path it wove was nearly visible. It pressed against the darkness around them, a dull reddish filament, a figment that strayed on the very edge of what was visible, and Taevan's eyes danced along its length frantically. The leash searing into him with all the strength Taevan could muster, but he could endure it. His snarl, a sound that inspired raw dread in the hearts of the living, that sent spirits and beasts scattering in this world and the Fade alike, uncoiled from his throat like a serpent. The wolf's breath was visible, white and opaque as it leaked from his jaws, as he gradually advanced on the mage, and the look on Taevan's face was one he would cherish.

In this moment, the mage knew true fear. 

His terror spurred him to action and Taevan's clumsy fingers dug deeply into his palm, spilled more blood than was necessary to tighten Fen'Harel's leash, and the wolf crept toward him as he gracelessly cobbled something together from the power that trickled through his fingers. The leash was still too strong to break; Fen'Harel's power was too limited, too divided to overcome the hasty, heavy-handed spell work that bound him, but he strained against it. It was agony, mind-numbing and overwhelming, but he resisted. The wolf's form, this body he wore, gradually took more and more damage as he fought against the mage; he risked real injury, but the mortal fear that gripped Taevan, the frantic hammering of the human's heart as he emphatically spilled his own blood, as he retreated and found himself cornered against the ice walls he so disdained, those were truly worth injury. 

Fen'Harel crowded him, managed to force his jaws apart and, for a perfect moment they loomed wide and terrible over the mage's head. Sadly, perfect moments were by their very nature fleeting and even he had limits. When he could tolerate the pain no longer the wolf sagged and, as Taevan twisted the leash, his weary, hurting limbs bent to the human's will. Once again, with a sweep of power, Fen'Harel was reduced to a silent, picturesque lapdog and the human mage stared at him, pale and terrified as he struggled and sucked down breath after breath. 

The emotion that stole through Taevan, now, was the first honest expression Fen'Harel had ever seen from him. He hadn't intended to frighten the mage so badly, but he savored the human's sheer terror, the disquiet that consumed him. Perhaps the threat of his jaws would even be enough to stay Taevan's hand with the others, to grant some reprieve from his casual violence. It would be a wonderful bonus, curbing the behavior of this beast, this twisted creature, with his presence alone.

If nothing else, there was no way the mage would eagerly expend power again, not while the wolf's eyes followed him.

Taevan sent the wolf away, moved him into the shadows outside the firelight, and Fen'Harel watched him as he shakily gathered himself. For how little emotion actually found purchase in the human, Taevan seemed to struggle with recovery; hours passed and the mage slowly, ever so slowly, managed to pull himself together. By the time he'd stayed the shaking that wound through his limbs, the sun had risen well above the horizon. There were no shadows to hide the wolf, now, and Taevan's eyes skittered past him whenever he hazarded a glance in the right direction. 

He was unsettled. 

Good.

Fen'Harel watched carefully as the mage woke the others. The weaker ones rose groggily; they were deeply disoriented, his inept butchering had damaged each of them to some degree and it took them long, thready minutes to rebuild themselves. The thin girl, Jola, vomited as she tried to stand. Fen'Harel had paid her little mind but, as she pawed at her hair and drew it back, pulled it away from her mouth as she coughed and sputtered, she caught his attention. 

She was disfigured in a curious way. Her ears had been mangled by something, hacked to a blunt, straight edge by a knife. They'd been cropped close to her skull, hacked apart by hasty hands. The wounds were old, long healed and scarred over, but the brutality of the wounds was vivid enough. Though her hair covered what remained of her ears, the sight was strange and gruesome enough that it stuck in his mind. 

He stared at her, tried to guess why any shemlen would mangle another in such a fashion, and the answer was a shock of cold down his spine. He could see it, then, in the morning light, under his full attention--she wasn't a shemlen, she was an elf. Her face was a little too round, a little too square, despite her pallor and her willowy build, he had figured her for a human. 

She was an elf. 

This weak, pathetic mage, this girl who curled into a creature with no care or regard, who mocked the staggering depths of her trust, she was of the people. The thought eclipsed all other thought and stole his breath away. She had barely warranted his attention, she had little more influence on the veil than the creatures that darted across the landscape...but she was an elf.... How was it possible?

What had happened to this world?

His shock was all consuming and lasted for long hours. When it finally gave ground and yielded to other thought, his thoughts raced and clamored over one another. The limitations of his binding, his failing awareness of this world, they were more than unacceptable. He needed knowledge, information, he craved it, his very soul cried out for it; the fact that he was trapped inside himself, imprisoned in this form by a careless madman, filled him with endless, compounding frustrated fury.

He needed to scream but the wolf's jaw was immovable.

His emotion calmed, boiled silently inside his chest until it was reduced to something more potent, something manageable, and he tried to calm himself. The elf, Jola, unsettled him deeply; her disfigurement was so specific, so painful, that he couldn't help but fixate on it. She was not nearly traumatized enough; that she could trust so openly, so lovingly--the thought slowed as he recalled Evelyn's demands as she bargained. She cared for Jola, for the others. She cared enough that she'd made a deal with the Dread Wolf on her behalf.

Though she'd done it unknowingly, Fen'Harel found his estimation of Evelyn to be considerably higher and, as he pondered, his judgment of Taevan became that much harsher.

He hadn't been invested in these others, in the companions that lingered in the shadow of death, but that was rapidly changing. He'd disregarded them entirely, written them off as fools and chattel, barely worth the effort of his disdain. Had he been wrong? Had Evelyn's request been so much more valuable than he believed? 

He found no answers as they traveled, to any of the questions that burned in the back of his mind, but he intended to seek them when night came upon them again.


End file.
